


No Words

by TheMarvelousMinniPin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agents, Comfort Sex, F/M, No Relationship, Porn With Plot, Sort Of, Trust, fuck buddies, mutual comfort, partners, vague depictions of past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12056301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMinniPin/pseuds/TheMarvelousMinniPin
Summary: What are words between old soldiers and spies? They just get in the way, tangle things up, make it messy. Actions speak louder than words ever could.





	No Words

They did not tend to share many words between them.

There was no need for mundane pillow talk (they’d both rather bite a bullet) or discussions of their future (what future?) or even to put a name to what they were ( _colleagues-friends-lovers-dating-live or die for each other-agents-partners-fuck buddies_ ). It served no purpose. That would clutter things up and make them messy.

And what could they say that would ever equal the comfort of a partner on your six? What words held the same weight as carrying the other, wounded, back to the rendezvous point? There was no term of endearment that could feel like skillful hands massaging away a back spasm (and definitely not saying “You’re getting too old for this.” “I know.”). Talk is cheap. Action is better.

“Natasha,” Is all he would say when he needed her. Not Romanoff  (“Romanov?” “Romanova.”) and certainly not Widow. She would follow or not, as it suited her. And if she happened to be following more often than not recently, well, that was just one more thing neither of them said. They always met at his condo, not twenty minutes from the Triskelion. Never hers. She had her reasons. She didn’t owe them to him.

In the early days it was very much _wham-bam-thank you ma’am_. In and out in under an hour. Sooner was better. She would shower at her place. No she didn’t need anything to eat. A water bottle for the road was a nice and practical gesture, thank you. But then Syria had been particularly bad. A lot of ghosts were waiting for them to fall asleep, a lot of _men_ compromised for _mission_. She hesitated for just a second before she slid on her shoes.

He decided to try one more time. “I’m ordering Thai.”

“Tom yam kung.”

 

 

And it wasn’t that…. Well it also wasn’t that he _didn’t_ care. He cared. Just not…like…that?  He was not in love with her. He didn’t have a crush on her. They weren’t even really friends. They were coworkers who lived and died by each other’s hand on missions. That spawned a certain closeness, and its own kind of fondness. He did first aid on her ankle when she sprained it on a jump, and insisted it wasn’t enough to bother a medic about. This was nothing more than an extension of that.

Brock was a soldier. He knew what it meant to fight those demons in your head. And he knew how hard it could be to do it alone, in a dark and quiet apartment.

So Natasha fell asleep on his couch that night. After that, their dynamic had shifted. They weren’t lovers or friends or any of that complicated shit. What they were didn’t have a name. Didn’t need one. But she’d grab takeout on her way over, or one time, she’d made blini because she was feeling homesick, and brought some to him as well.

If they found a movie, they might watch it in mutual silence. Sometimes, she stayed the night. Always unannounced, always on the couch. He would have a pillow and blanket down on the corner of the couch if she wanted it.

But first, they fucked.

Fucking always came first. Usually as soon as she walked through the door. He liked to pick her up and carry her in there, and she let him, because she didn’t care. She was such a little thing. He liked to feel the muscles bunch in her thighs as she wrapped them around his waist. He loved to twine his fingers in her bright red hair, pull it back, and lave at her creamy neck.

She bounced when he tossed her on the bed. She was deceptively dense, with so much muscle packed on her frame. She would peer up at him through her darkened lashes. Warring instincts. Was she the little spider that the Red Room and the Winter Soldier had trained her to be? Or was she the free woman that she was allowed to be under S.H.I.E.L.D. –for all their other failings, no longer sending her on _those_ kinds of missions. Whether Natasha or the Widow won out usually depended on the day, on the mission before, on the turn of the tide, and the phase of the moon.

Brock had learned to please both of them.

Natasha was more demanding. She felt more real under his hands. Her responses were more genuine. She liked to bite and scratch and tighten her fingers in his hair. She could crush a man’s skull between her legs but, well, the fear was half the fun of being down there.

The Widow was a coquette. She had pretty smiles and flirtatious looks, and she only liked to be on top in play, so that he could see her pert breasts bouncing as she raised and lowered herself on his cock.

Thankfully, she was Natasha today. There wasn’t much reason to have a preference in this little nameless tryst of theirs, but Brock preferred Natasha. She arched her back as he gave her clit a particularly hard suck and rolled his tongue along it. He pressed a finger into her, just to hear her moan. She ground down. She twisted her fingers in his hair, as much as she could, and held him tightly.

He added another finger and slowly fucked in and out of her pussy while he teased her clit. If he did this right, he could make her come pretty quickly. Penetration alone, and she couldn’t. Sometimes she couldn’t from clitoral stimulation alone. But both together was a damn near guarantee. He had a vibrator up near the pillow, waiting for when he was pounding her senseless.

He curled his fingers in that ubiquitous ‘come hither’ motion (which he was convinced was derived from the sex act, and not the other way around). She was close. He could hear it in the tempo of her moans and whimpers. He moved his mouth and went at her clit with his other hand instead. Sometimes he had to be a bit rough. Grind it into her pelvis so that she really felt it. He nipped and kissed along her thighs, fucking her on his fingers and massaging her clit until she gave one particularly high pitched “Oh!” and her thighs clamped down on his arms so that she could rock down.

It hurt, but it was worth it. She slowly relaxed and relaxed her legs, and he was able to shake blood flow back into them before she really opened her eyes. She eyed him up and down for a moment, before shifting her legs slightly farther apart. He didn’t ask her to reciprocate what he had just done. She would do it, without him asking, without complaint, but sometimes when she did it, her eyes glazed over a bit. He could tell that she was somewhere else, and it wasn’t somewhere good. So yeah, he liked it, but he didn’t like it that much. No sense in putting a soldier though more shit when they had already been thought so much.

So he flipped her over onto her stomach. He had always liked it better this way, vaguely wondered what Freud would say about it – _“You like to fuck women from behind because you’re thinking about your mother so you can’t look at your partner’s face.” No, wait, come back boner!-_ and this was a good angle to hit her with that vibrator.

She stuffed some pillows up under her like one of those wedges and he pressed into her slowly. Always slowly. A good pussy was like a good brandy; you didn’t down it all at once. Slow. Savor it. Let the tightness and the wetness and the heat engulf you. Listen as she purrs, because she likes being filled almost as much as you like filling her.

Bottom out. Pause. Pull back. Pause. _Snap!_

Again and again until you’re both fighting so that you don’t literally plow her into the mattress. She was so tight and so wet and he was so, so close.

His hand groped around for the vibrator, because he was not finishing without giving her another one. Man’s real best friend in hand, he crossed his other arm over her torso and hauled them both back. He was kneeling while she sat on his lap. He fucked up into her. She tossed her head back onto his shoulder, appreciating the change in angle. Close. So fucking close.

He pressed the vibe to her clit and flicked it on. She shouted when it buzzed to life. Shouted and jumped. “F-fuck! Fuck!” She never said his name when she came, clamping her walls down and pulling him along for the ride. He bit it back, tried not to. Seemed normal to him, but maybe it was weird to her, and their thing wasn’t talking, so he could hardly ask.

They rolled apart before the sweat could even start to dry. Now came the part where Natasha Romanov got the cuddliest she probably ever did. Brock had learned that if he laid on his back, and he laid real still, that sometimes she would drop her head on his shoulder for a moment. And sometimes, on hard days like today, she would nudge him in that way he had come to understand meant she wanted kisses.

So he kissed her, softly and slowly, because that’s what she liked. It was the most intimate moment of anything they did, which was probably why it was rare. Mouths met, but there was no battle for dominance. She didn’t care, as long as she got what she wanted. If he preferred the more assertive role, it hardly mattered. And he liked the practiced slide of a tongue along his, filling up his mouth, before retreating back, for them to do the same in hers.

Afterwards, they showered. Usually together. It was only practical. And if it took a bit longer than the 7 minutes strictly necessary for a soldier to get a good shower, it was just because they were rubbing whatever was tight from that day’s hard work. No one mentioned that they were both too old for this job. (Mostly him, he had fifteen years on her, but it ain’t  the years, boy; it’s the miles.)

 

 

She wasn’t staying that night, the pillow and blanket ignored on the corner of the couch. They had a mission tomorrow. A S.H.I.E.L.D vessel had been taken over by pirates. Tomorrow, he would babysit Captain America while the Star Spangled Man got it back, and make sure that God’s Righteous Soldier didn’t get in the way of Natasha’s mission. Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb smoothing along his cheekbone. “Come back alive.” That was the most ever said between them.

**Author's Note:**

> So instead of working on Smoke, Fire, and Winter like a good Minnie, here's some weird WidowBones for you to chew on. Plot bunnies can't always be corralled. At least you know I'm not dead! But if I do die, my final wish is for Weirdlet to finish Fools Rush In, and then someone has to print it off, burn it, and mix it wish my ashes.


End file.
